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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981356">You Realize I'm Sitting Right Here</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly'>dancinbutterfly</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Justified [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnificent Seven (2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Assassins &amp; Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Billy Loves Movies, Billy and Goodnight are so fucking in love with each other, Billy is a Federal Fugitive, Billy references movies all the time even inside his own head, Discussion of the above topics but no scenes including them, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Goodnight is a Deputy US Marshal, Goody Just Loves Billy, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intimacy, Love, M/M, Past Human Trafficking, References to Billy's in-fic history and all that implies, Sam is a Deputy US Marshal, Slight of Hand Magic, Team Dynamics, Teamwork, Trust Issues, VERY eventual, Waffle House</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:29:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,991</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981356</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Joshua Faraday is having a bad day, and unfortunately that is now Deputy Marshal Sam Chisolm's problem.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks, Joshua Faraday/Red Harvest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Justified [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/719169</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am so glad to get this out. Thank you so much to the M7 discord for their support esp poemsingreenink for letting me write at them. </p><p>As always, this is for decoy_ocelot.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><blockquote>
  <p><strong>Art Mullen:</strong> [about Rachel] She's the best marshal I've got.<br/>
<strong>Raylan Givens:</strong> You realize I'm sitting right here?<br/>
<strong>Art Mullen:</strong> I do.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
</blockquote><p>- <b>Justified</b> 2.04 <em>For Blood or Money</em></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
</div><p>There was a haggard white man in Sam’s office when he got back from lunch on an otherwise normal Friday afternoon. Upon closer inspection, the man was Faraday from the AUSA office which was peculiar as he hadn’t requested a beached shark.</p><p>Faraday typically met with Harp on business (what with Harp being the Chief Deputy for their office) and Goodnight for social occasions as the two were both the same flavor of functional drunk. They spoke every now and then when his cases came across Faraday’s desk, of course. And Sam had exchanged a few very terse emails him two weeks ago seeking editorial assistance on an immunity agreement for Goody’s assassin. Despite being outside his scope of practice, Sam had complied because truth be told, he enjoyed handing down a bit of vicious criticism in red ink, especially when it was requested of him.</p><p>Mostly he’d agreed because even after all this time, he still thought of Goody as <em>his</em> mess keep an eye on. He’d saved the man’s life in Nicaragua after all. You save a man’s life and he becomes your responsibility. It’d be a shame to let a damn good marshal go to waste after all the effort Sam expended getting the man into the service after his detachment over something as simple as a sweetheart. Even if that sweetheart was a coldblooded murderer.</p><p>Still, that didn’t explain the lawyer in his office although this could be another transitional thing. Harp’s retirement was less than a year away now and Sam would be filling the Chief Deputy soon. He didn’t want to see Faraday any sooner than that if he had to. Which begs the question of the hour.</p><p>“What are you doing in my office?”</p><p>“Having a nervous breakdown.You want a drink?”</p><p>“I don’t keep alcohol in here.”</p><p>“That’s fine,” Faraday says with a thin, near hysterical chuckle,“I brought my own.” All of a sudden, his paper-white hands were waving a flask at him that seemed to have appeared as if by magic. He can hear the liquor sloshing inside as Faraday unscrewed the cap. Sam did not want to know.</p><p>“I’m on the clock.”</p><p>“I’m salaried so technically I’m always working. Surely, it’s somewhere five-o-clock, right Chisolm?”</p><p>Sam twitches his nose, his mustache bristling over his lip. “Sure. But not here for awhile yet.”</p><p>“Right. Right.” He takes a drink anyway then sighs. “Ah, fuck.”</p><p>“Can I help you?”</p><p>“No.” Then, “Maybe. Shit, I don’t know.” He drags his free hand over his face then stares up into Sam’s eyes. “I fucked up, man.”</p><p>“Did you now?”</p><p>Faraday takes another drink and starts talking. He talks and talks and oh boy, does he talk about a mess with the computer he’s been writing up the Assassin case on and an IT tech who had been less than sympathetic and how it was all due to an assignation with Facebook gonzo journalist that Sam doesn’t need to know the details of. “I don’t know what he knows. I didn’t find out. I was too busy bending over for his-“</p><p>“I think I get your drift.”</p><p>“Do you? Because I may have ruined Bi-the client’s case.”</p><p>Sam has the awful, sinking suspicion that Goodnight and Faraday have been machinating on the NPMI case without him. And they’d just better not have been. “How do you reckon?”</p><p>“That little bastard knows something. I know he knows something. And what did I do? Did I say 'no goddamn comment' like the professional I am? No, of course not. I called him Daddy and begged him to-“</p><p>“Counselor, I can’t stress how much I don’t need to know.” It does explain the purple-red spots on his neck. On closer inspection they hide teeth marks. “So you slipped. Happens to the best of us.” Well, not to him but that won’t help Faraday now will it? “What’d you tell him?”</p><p>“I don’t remember,” he moans into the lip of the flask before downing another drink. “I was fuck-dumb and panicking.”</p><p>“As opposed to regular dumb and panicking.”</p><p>“Sam, I swear-“</p><p>“Relax. You probably didn’t do anything. If he finds something, he finds something and we deal with it then. Sounds like the computer is the bigger issues.”</p><p>“My beautiful briefs.” He sounds ready to cry.</p><p>“I’m going to assume you mean legal briefs.”</p><p>“Well of course. What else would I mean?”</p><p>Sam waves a hand. One thing at a time. As uncouth as his problems may be, the boy was worried about actual cases and concerned about legitimate work. He could sympathize with that. He was the better man. Usually.</p><p>“Did you back up your work?”</p><p>“I think so. I don’t know. I haven’t been able to check. Jesus, what am I going to tell them?” Faraday moans like a paid mourner. “This is fucking immunity. A man’s life is on the line.”</p><p>“Alright let’s not borrow trouble. Worst comes to worst I have the copy I edited on my computer and you start from there. Best case, back ups worked and it’s all good, no sweat.”</p><p>Faraday doesn’t look relieved. Sam doesn’t actually care what he thinks so much as he does about the reality of the situation and shoved him bodily into his chair behind his own office computer. Faraday looks up at him flabbergasted and Sam figures this day may be worse for him than he originally understood.</p><p>“Log on, check, and we’ll go from there.”</p><p>“Oh. Yeah. Thanks Sam.”</p><p>Sam sighs. A brilliant courtroom litigator but damn if he lacked the good sense the good lord graced a goose in hunting season.</p><p>Sam drops into parade rest to watch as Faraday logs in, checks his shared drive before letting out a breath of relief that seems to deflate his whole body. His blond mop drops into his folded hands and Sam hears a mumbled “Thank you, fuck, thank you,” although who he was thanking, Sam couldn’t be sure as he rubbed his forehead against his thumbs.</p><p>Without waiting for Faraday to collect himself, he reaches over to print the damn thing. A couple collated hard copies of the final document will save them all a lot of pain in the future. Across the office, he hears the behemoth combination fax machine/copier/scanner/laser printer groan to life.</p><p>That accomplished, Sam looks at the bitten back of Faraday’s neck and steels himself for the next portion of this task. “Now tell me about the reporter.”</p><p>And it’s not as bad as it could be. It’s not good though. It’s not good at all. He curses Joshua Faraday for being a couple kinds of idiot and ten types of slut and presses his thumb into the hollow of his eye.</p><p>“We have to tell them before that special agent from the Feeb arrives Monday.”</p><p>“Oh. Shit.” Faraday’s big hairy white hands are back on his face, dragging his flesh over bone so that the pink his lower eyelid and inner lip were exposed to the recycled air of the office and Sam’s misfortune to behold. He looked and sounded practically ghoulish as he groaned. “Fucking Cullen is coming. I forgot fucking Cullen is coming for the fucking Task Force.”</p><p>At the sight of Faraday curled in on himself reminding him of nothing so much as a baby armadillo on asphalt mere moments before transitioning from sad, wounded varmint to shovel-ready roadkill, Sam pitied the young man enough not to raise his voice or sharpen his tone. He was professional, conversational even when he spoke, because his mother taught him that it didn’t cost anything to be nice. “That’s plan. If this Boy Friday is gonna start poking around then we need to make sure we get our consultant prepared to sit tight, shut up and behave.”</p><p>“Do we though?” Faraday asked through the Karloff configuration of skin and cartilage he made with his palms and fingers as if to knead the anxiety from his face by force. “Do we have to?” He slurred every word but still managed to buy a hard stress on “we.”</p><p>Which is amusing but no. Sam Chisolm has earned the right to be too old and tired to play that game everyone knew it.</p><p>“We do, or you do,” he informs Faraday with the sort of curtness he thought he was saving for a son but has instead been using it on asshole colleagues who are supposed to be grown men (and it’s always the men) for fifteen years instead. And that decides that, as Sam knew it would.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>While it’s not exactly Sam’s sort of thing, it’s plain to see that Billy is a good looking man. He’s all fine lines and sharp angles cut with deep shadows. He looked downright sultry in the halogen glow of the overhead fluorescent lighting of the Waffle House a mile from Sam’s house where they have all convened and the mysterious man is holding his fork in a way that looks as though he means serious business as he glares across the table at Faraday.</p><p>“Just sign it,” Faraday says, unimpressed, his chin bumping against the faux wood of the table with each word. </p><p>Billy taps his fork on the space millimeters in front of Faraday’s chin between the document and the spot where flesh met table. “The reporter first.”</p><p>“Please just sign the damn thing. I suffered for your safety. Just, anywhere there’s an check, initial. And sign and date anywhere I put an X.”</p><p>Billy pushes the pen Faraday has supplied away with the fork pointedly before tapping it again in that tiny space in front of Faraday’s face. Sam’s impressed by the technique to be honest.</p><p>“What’s he know?”</p><p>“Come on, man. This is for you, ya know. Fuck, why are you like this?” Faraday demands. </p><p>Billy shrugs, utterly unmoved by Faraday’s dramatics.</p><p>“I'm traumatized by years of systemic abuse and my strong sense of loyalty is warped by a profound need for vengeance.” </p><p>He glances towards the grill as a taut silence begins to take root in the wake of his statement. Goody bumps his shoulder and shakes his head in answer to whatever question he had but didn’t voice.</p><p>Sam can’t help but feel all the muscles in his forehead rise at that ruthless self-assessment. He forces his eyebrows and wrinkles back where they belong and says “Good for a man to know himself. Plenty of folks don’t.” Because it might ease things and has the added benefit of being true.</p><p>“I’d watch a movie with that hero, cher,” Goody murmurs. Sam finds significantly less helpful but it makes Billy’s jaw loosen so what does he know about assassin taming?</p><p>Faraday’s unmoved. “The FBI liaison is due literally any goddamn day. You have to have signed this before they get here. You have to. Do you get that? Otherwise-“</p><p>A middle aged woman with drugstore-red hair in the standard uniform of black apron and visor chooses that moment to approach the table. “Thank y’all for dining at Waffle House. I’m Mary and I’ll be taking care of y’all today. What can I get y’all to start?” Her customer service smile is believably genuine.</p><p>“Go away,” Faraday growlers like a surly bridge troll.</p><p>“Joshua,” Goodnight’s tone is scolding. “That is no way to speak to a lady.”</p><p>“Sorry. Coffee. Ow! Please. Fuck. Coffee please.” He lifts his head to glare, hard, across the table at Goody, slamming his hand on his brief as he turns to give Mary a smile made of sticky sweetness and strychnine. “Just coffee please. Forever. Until I die. Please. Coffee. Thank you. Ma’am.”</p><p>Goody smiles back at him, all sunshine and soda pop. “Wasn’t hard was it?”</p><p>Mary is unimpressed and doesn’t even bother to click her pen. She just nods with implacability only seen in veteran law enforcement, emergency medical workers, and third-shift waitstaff like herself and jots it down on the bright yellow pad. </p><p>Sam doesn’t laugh as he orders, in essence, the same. Billy is laughing but he orders orange juice and two different specials and three to-go orders. Goody orders a single waffle and milk in a besotted daze, utterly distracted by Billy’s every grin and chuckle.</p><p>Faraday’s patience snaps the moment Mary walks away to shout their order at the cook. He leans over and hisses at them both, “Fine. Fine, you know what? Fine.  Don’t sign it. Be on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. And let Robicheaux throw away his career. I’ll go back to my office and drink that whiskey and when Special Agent Cullen gets here, we can just,” he waves both hands in the air in defeat. “Fuck it, I don’t know, see what happens.” </p><p>“You're gonna wanna watch where you’re throwing elbows in a public place.” Sam warns in what he thinks is a fairly considered tone. That one almost caught him in the jaw and Faraday would not have been much pleased if it had. Not at all. </p><p>“Sorry,” Faraday says, not sounding sorry at all but both hands are now planted firmly on the tabletop. “But my point stands.”</p><p>Billy pulls the papers towards him, catching the pen with his pinky. He goes still with the cover page turned ever so slightly and says crisply, “Tell me about the reporter.”</p><p>Faraday shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”</p><p>“Coffee.” Mary says, reappearing to place a small white plastic cup in front of Sam, then another in front of Faraday. “And I’ll have y’all boys’ drinks out in just a second.”</p><p>Sam gives her his most winning smile and a little pink rises in her cheeks. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.” </p><p>“That bite he left’s fucking purple.” Billy says, ignoring them both completely. “I used to put marks like that on Goody when I still was afraid he’d leave me.”</p><p>Faraday visibly winces and Mary lets out something between a gasp and a horrified laugh. Goody gives her a smile that is even more winning than Sam’s was though she is far less impressed.</p><p>“Don’t trouble yourself over our drinks, Mary. We’ll take ‘em when the meals ready.” Goodnight cuts in over Billy’s gross impropriety. </p><p>“Sure thing, hon.” She says, seeming glad to have an excuse to escape. Sam wishes he had one but one the inside of a booth he can’t even claim he needs the bathroom without disrupting this whole farce. </p><p>Now Faraday is pointing an accusing finger across the table. “You don’t know it’s from him.”</p><p>“But it is,” Goody muses, draping an arm around Billy’s shoulder even as the other man slides back into his seat and the loose facsimile of an embrace, “And he does.” It is a smooth bit of choreography, almost seamless and, Sam can admit, if he weren’t paying attention, he might not have noticed. </p><p>Faraday doesn’t answer. He drags his hand over his face then rubs the top of his head. “I don’t know what all he knows. He’s a journo. He’s not going to tell until he goes to print. But he knows people are dead. So please, Billy, sign the damn thing, so you the locals won’t haul you in if he takes whatever he knows to, I don’t know, Al Jezeera or something.”</p><p>Sam turns to stare at Faraday. “Al Jezeera is based in Qatar.”</p><p>“I don’t fucking know, Sam, okay? I don’t know. I know the law, and I know how to make this,” he picks up the fork Billy had been threatening him with, twisted his wrist, and in an instant, it was gone. Just gone, as though it had never been there. What the hell? “Disappear.”</p><p>Sam has seen men snap before. He knows the signs and he doesn’t want to see it happen now, to his colleague, in the terrible lighting of this Waffle House. “Faraday, you need to take a breath.” </p><p>“And bring the fork back.” Billy adds.</p><p>“I’m breathing. I’m breathing and- I’m trying to do my job, okay? Because that's what I know. I don’t know about journalism and I don’t know about assassinations and I don’t know about star-crossed love. So Billy, will you please, for the love of whatever you find fucking holy, just sign the very nice legal document I drew up?” As they all watch Faraday flicks his wrist and the fork reappears in his hand. He drops it on the table with a clatter.</p><p>Billy is staring with open admiration. “How’d you do that?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“That. With the fork.”</p><p>“It’s magic.” Faraday shrugs. “Slight of hand, card tricks and shit and it is literally the least important thing we’re talking about.”</p><p>“Card tricks like in The Sting?”</p><p>Faraday narrows his eyes and nods, slowly. “Yeah. Card tricks. Like in The Sting.”</p><p>“You know how to do magic.” Billy says, “And you didn’t tell me.”</p><p>Faraday tilts his head, reminding Sam of an especially confused yellow Labrador retriever. He squints at Billy for a moment before he answers. “No?” </p><p>“You should have.” And with that, he flips open the brief and begins to sign. Goody’s eyes go soft and leans over and presses a kiss to Billy’s temple. </p><p>Faraday looks at Sam, confusion writ large across his face, clearly asking what and why but Sam has no idea what difference that makes, how the fact that Faraday can do a few magic tricks changed anything but he’s not going to question it. Faraday shouldn’t either and he tries to express this with a very firm wiggle of his eyebrows. Faraday shrugs and rubs his face again before taking a long gulp of his coffee. Sam is choosing to consider that a success. </p><p>Disaster, averted. Mayhem, managed. Time to move on to the next piece of this ongoing crisis. Sam thinks that calls for hashbrowns.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><ul>Notes:
<li>I have absolutely no idea how Al Jezeera's  story solicitation works. At all. They are, however, indeed based in Qatar.</li>
<li>The card trick scene in the Sting is famous for can be found <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3bnMv3ULes">here</a>
</li>
</ul></blockquote></div></div>
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